


If You Try Sometimes

by ratherbe4gotten



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-18
Updated: 2012-04-18
Packaged: 2017-11-03 20:38:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherbe4gotten/pseuds/ratherbe4gotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Penguins/Flyers game 3 hurt/comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Try Sometimes

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: hurt/comfort, angst, goalies, slight Max Talbot bashing, MAF’s affinity for the f word, abuse of run on sentences.
> 
> I apologise for the lack of beta. I wanted to post this before game 4, because after game 4 I’m hoping I’ll have something less depressing to write about! This is the first thing I've written in a very long time.

The apartment is stale, dusty, empty, cold. He should have gone home. The thought had echoed in his head, even as the streetlights had flashed past the taxi’s windows. The streets had been empty, the highway turned to residential blocks before he had changed his plans, his mind. He needed time to think, get his head right. Vero. She had probably stopped wondering if he would be back by now. She was use to his need for space, especially after a big loss.

_Sham, cheater, bastard_

She would understand. She was one of the ones he smiled for, like his family, the fans. This side of him, it wasn’t meant for her.

_Sham, Liar_

_Liar_

He had barely got the directions out to the driver, stuttered out the street name in broken English, like the language of his adopted home had been knocked out of him along with his heart, his pride. He hadn’t been here since... The last time Tanger had been here to tease, laugh, console. He shouldn’t have come back, it was prodding at a wound that had already been ripped wide.

_Tanger, shit._

_You left, you fucker, you promised. You promised me._

He shouldn’t have shouted... he should have bitten his tongue. It wasn't Kris' fault. He pushed his hands up into his eyes, tried to shut out the echoes, but the pucks still hit the back of the net. A stutter stop replay and if he could just get a glove, a pad on one of them...

The chairs were gone, the TV, mugs, glasses. The blinds were open, the orange glow of the city casting columns of shadows across the room. The bottle he’d brought up sat beside him on the floor. It hadn’t taken much. Exhaustion, mental, physical, a few shots worth and already his head was spinning. He didn’t care. He was going to sit here and drink himself stupid. He was allowed that, he’d earned the right to the hangover that already seemed to have started behind his eyes. He needed time, space to put his walls back up, to pull up the barriers that let him pretend that he’d bounced back, even if the lie was only enough to get him through another shot, another period, another game. But he didn’t have time. Two days and they’d be back in Philli and he needed to get over this. He’d let the team down and if they couldn’t pull it back, if they couldn’t... he didn’t want to think who they might lose this time. Or maybe, maybe he’d be the one getting that call at the end of June.

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry_

_It doesn’t matter_

_Fuck_

_I’m sorry_

The vodka burned his throat, cheap corner store shit that Geno would've given him a hard time over. The sting was enough clear his head for a moment, long enough for him to wonder if there were still blankets on the bed, whether he had it in him to crawl to the bedroom to find out, or whether, if he pulled his duffle closer, he could just sleep where he was. 

The hammering on the door sent him sprawling to his feet before he realised what it was. The vodka bottle tipped and spilled, but he left it spinning on the wooden floor. He hated the lurch that hit him right in the chest, the way his heart pounded before reality set in. There were only a handful of people who knew where this place was and he was pretty sure he had burned most of those bridges. The door rattled in its frame. It had to be two, three am. Someone would probably call the police. He just wanted to be left the fuck alone.

He felt ridiculous as he pressed himself up against the door, tried to focus on the tiny spy hole set high up in the solid wood. The door shifted under his weight and the knocking stopped. Shit. Fucking fuckers. Brent wasn’t one of the people who knew about this place. Someone had opened their mouth and he was pretty sure he knew where he could lay the blame. He pulled back the latch, let himself fall back into the room until he hit the breakfast bar. It wasn’t like Brent was just going to go away because he wanted him to; tonight had proved his luck was long gone.

When he opened his eyes again Brent was standing just inside the door. He still had his duffle slung across his shoulder, which probably meant he hadn’t made it home before he’d been sent on this babysitting mission. He wanted to laugh it off, grin. Maybe it was the alcohol, but his face felt fixed. He followed Brent’s eyes as they flicked across the half empty apartment, the bare shelves, cardboard boxes, memories.

“What are you doing here?” He frowned, sure that the words were his, but it was Brent who was waiting for an answer.

“C’est Le mien.” He shook his head and tried again. “ ’s mine, my place.” His head was spinning. Wow, he was fucked. “I need to sit, I need to sit down.”

Brent picked up the vodka bottle, watched as Marc shuffled across to the wall and slid back to the floor. “All of this?”

He shook his head. “No.”

Brent nodded, surprised Marc by taking a gulp from what was left. “Good, because I only want to do this once. Marc, buddy, what the fuck is going on in that head of yours?”

He let his shoulders fall back against the wall, felt something like a grin find its way back onto his lips, it was brittle, bitter. “ ‘s bad game. You know? A bad game, bad goals. It’s the playoffs, you expect me to be happy?”

“Tanger—

“Tanger needs to learn to learn to shut up!” Fuck, Tanger.

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry..._

He bit back his breath, but Brent didn’t take the bait, just slid to the floor opposite and let his arms rest across his knees, the bottle dangling from his fingertips. “Tanger was worried, the whole team is worried, but I guess maybe he thought... Shit, I’ve never seen you like this. So start, what got you so riled?”

He bit off a laugh. He wants the bottle back. “You really want to know? What do you think? Talbot, he fucks with my head. Maybe it’s fun to him.”

“He was your friend, but it’s playoff hockey. What he says now, it doesn’t mean anything two weeks, a month from now...”

“He called me a cheater, a bastard.” Brent looked at him, confused.

_You’re lying to her you fucker, you lie to your friends, your team_

“He’s been doing it since game one and it’s fine, I expect it, but then he talks about things, talks about things only he knows and he tells them in front of the others. I’m not made of stone, I’m not rubber that can bounce back from everything, I’m just human.”

He can see the frown starting between Brent’s eyes and he’ll given him that, now that he thinks about it. Brent's always been pretty classy when it comes to his past teams, always been happy to share team tactics, but not to talk about the locker room.

“He used to come here. We use to hangout after games, bad days when it’s easier just to drown sorrows, you know? And now...”

He can see Brent’s turning things over and there it is, the little furrow that says he’s not happy, and Marc just wants to go over there and smooth it out. He lets the back of his head hit the wall. He never learns, even now, he never...

“Marc, fuck, I know you guys were close. Were you guys... I don’t know, I’m not trying to start shit, I’m just trying to understand what’s going on here?”

“He was my best friend, my best fucking friend.” His eyes are burning and he’s not sure if it’s hurt or anger anymore. “I’d thought, I don’t know what I’d thought, okay? It was a fucking mistake.”

Brent, Brent just looks at him and Marc can still see his mind spinning. He watches as Brent lifts the bottle, then hesitates and swings it out to him. Marc takes the offering, knows what Brent is asking, half chokes on the first gulp he tastes. Everything in him is shouting don’t. Don’t talk, don’t risk, just don’t. He pushes himself up in one unsteady move, not even sure where he is going, the apartment is too small.

The memories are swimming in his head.

_I never meant_

_I’m sorry_

_I just don’t_

_I’m not_

_I can’t be, that_

God, it’s painful and embarrassing and he can’t believe how much more it hurts now that he knows he really did fuck everything up, that there is never going to be any going back to what they were before. And Brent is still fucking there, still looking at him like maybe he understands, but he can’t, because if he did then he would be gone, straight out the door, like everyone else.

“I thought I had it under control. Tanger was running interference... and then—

“And then Kris got kicked out.”

“I didn’t mean to let everything go to hell. It’s not, it’s not Max’s fault. I made a mistake and I’ll get it together, I’ll make sure the team doesn’t pay for it anymore.” He knows babbling now, his heart is racing and he just needs this done. He’s tired and drunk and he needs to get this done.

“Marc, it’s okay. It’s okay, but... what the fuck happened with the two of you?”

Brent is there and he’s solid, he’s always solid, always got Marc's back. It's almost self defence that pushes him in the end. It’s two steps and maybe Brent is taller than him, but only just, and he’s got one hand tangled in Brent's shirt and another around the back of his neck before he reaches up. It’s not a kiss, it’s a smash of lips that has more to do with defiance than heat. Then he’s moving back and shit, shit. Brent is going to kick his ass. He is going to kick his ass and then he is going to leave and go back and tell the rest of the team just what a pathetic piece of shit their goalie is.

But it’s done.

_Liar_

_Liar_

But it’s fucking done. He is who he is. Yes, he’s the joker, the mischief maker, but he’s darker too, he’s bitter, he’s a goalie and all of them, they live inside their own heads too much. If anyone is going to understand that, if anyone is going to see how he can be all of that and still want... this.

His heart is still racing, but it’s slowing by the time he realises Brent hasn’t moved. His hand is still tangled in Brent’s shirt, but the other hand has slipped to his shoulder and he can feel the tension holding Brent so completely still. He opens his eyes. He knows how dark they must look now, black and blown wide with adrenaline. Brent is watching him, his breath soft, sweet with alcohol across his lips, and suddenly that height difference is just enough to be hot.

“You kissed him?”

The question throws him for a second. He nods.

“And now you’re kissing me?”

Fuck. “Oui?”

“Idiot.” The word is breathed and he’s sure it’s meant for him, or for Max, almost sure, and then Brent is pushing him back. The adrenaline is doing its job, his head is clearer, but his feet stumble until he hits the wall. He’s breathing fast, shallow, but so is Brent. He bites his lip, tilts his head back. It’s an offer, he can’t make it any clearer and Brent doesn’t hesitant. His lips are dry against Marc’s collarbone and there’s stubble where they’ve at least made it three games in. Then there’s teeth and fuck it’s good, it’s good.

He gets his hands on Brent’s shirt, pulls it up enough that he can get a hand on his skin, pulls Brent in until he get’s the idea and pins Marc tight up against the wall, one hand at Marc's hip, the other tangling up in the hair at the back of his neck so that he can bite his way along Marc’s jaw.

He wants... fuck, he just wants. Brent is still in his dress pants, but the jacket is gone and the t-shirt he is wearing stretches easily as Marc pulls it up, drags it off. Brent’s mouth finds Marc's as his head comes back down. It’s physical, tongues and teeth, a weeks worth of frustration and pain wrapped up in heat and wet. His hands skim across skin and Brent might be the oldest guy on their roster, but he’s a hockey player. Knots of muscle shift under his grip and he pushes himself forward until his hips slide up the ridge of the Brent thigh.

Brent pulls back, his mouth hot and wet against Marc's neck, his ear. It takes him a moment to realise there are words mixed in with the rush of breath against his skin. “Can I? Fuck, Flower tell me...” The hand at the back of his pants is insistent, fingers griping his ass, pulling him closer and it’s so hot to hear that name here, to realise how much Brent seems to want this as badly as him.

He’s nodding, breathless, but he’s not sure Brent can tell and his English is skittering around in his head. He leans back instead, pushes Brent’s other hand to his waist as he pulls his own shirt up and over his head. Brent gets it, gets Marc’s belt undone, flicks open the top button, tugs the zip until it’s only the wall behind him is stopping Marc's pants from slipping to the ground. He knows he is small for a goalie. He’s not short, but he doesn’t have Brent’s bulk. He’s not ashamed, knows every muscle is honed for the job that they do, and it’s something to have the other goalie study him, eyes and whip quick hands tracing the line from his stomach down to the cut of his hips.

He gets a hand between them, cups it around Brent through his pants. He wants to go down, drop to his knees and show Brent just what this is worth to him. His cock jumps at the thought and his knees start to buckle, but Brent gets a shoulder under his arm and hauls him back up. His eyes are blown wide, like he knows just what Marc was thinking. “I won’t, fuck, trust me, I won’t stay on my feet if you... just tell me this place has a bed?”

Marc nods, head spinning, alcohol and adrenaline and fuck... he pushes himself off the wall, catches his pants before they hit the floor and stumbles towards the bedroom. He’s kicked off the last off his clothes before he realises that Brent hasn’t followed. The bed is cold. There’s a sheet stretched across the mattress but no comforter, nothing to hide behind. When he looks up Brent is in the doorway, plastic beaker from the bathroom in his hand. He takes the cup, gulps the water down like this is normal, like he’s not sitting naked and half hard in front of his backup.

“I don’t think, you can barely walk, Marc—

“Don’t. If you want to go, I get it, but I’m not that drunk, just tired, stressed...“ He wants. He wants and his heart is hammering as he lays back, stretches out. The air is cold across his skin, every hair over sensitised. Even with his eyes closed, he knows Brent is watching him. There’s a chance Brent will leave, he knows that. This is stupid, a stupid risk for both of them.

The bed dips and he can feel the heat from Brent’s body before the hand that strokes up his thigh. “I’m not, I don’t want to go.”

He doesn’t know what that means and it’s too much, too much right now on top of everything else. It easier just to lean up, catch Brent’s mouth and pull him back down. Brent’s skin feels like fire against him. He wants more, wants to feel Brent’s weight against him, pushing him down into the bed. He hooks his leg around Brent’s thigh, squirms up against him, gets his hands on Brent’s ass and drags him down, until it’s too much, until the kiss has gone and they’re just breathing into each other and it’s still not enough.

“Fuck, Brent need...” Their bodies are slick with sweat. He pushes Brent up, gets a hand between them, get’s his first feel of Brent’s cock in his hand, before it’s pushed away and Brent is wrapping his hand around both of them. The grip knocks the air out of his lungs. Brent gets his head up under Marc's chin, worries at the skin of his neck, shoulder, collarbone.

He can hear the murmur in Brent’s voice, but it’s hard to focus. “Want to do so much to you, want to hold you down, see if you can take-” And Marc whines, honest to god whines. He'd be embarrassed as fuck if he could get his head together enough. Brent pushes up, his hair damp with sweat, and gets his whole hand on Marc and Marc's being totally out classed here. 

Brent squeezes his eyes closed for a moment, before he's pressing back down. “Fuck, you’d let me, you’d let me right now.” It’s too much, Marc wants, fuck he wants and it’s too much. He manages to get a hand on Brent and then he’s coming, his whole body stretched tight as Brent pushes into his hand. He keeps his head long enough to get Brent there with him, then they’re both collapsing back onto the bed. Brent is half on top of him, but it’s good, it’s good.

It takes a few minutes for him to come back down, for the doubts to start to kick in. He feels too open, too exposed. Then Brent is leaning up enough that he can turn his head and he’s smiling, close to laughing. “I’m too old for this shit.”

Marc can’t help it, he's grinning back and Brent is just looking at him like he’s the crazy one.

They’re a mess. He pushes Brent off enough that he can reach into the under bed storage. There’s a spare fitted sheet and a couple of pillowcases. It’s not much, but it’s enough to clean them up. He throws the sheet over the bed. They aren’t exactly cuddling, but Brent’s arm is pushed up against his side and they’re close enough that the room doesn't feel as cold.

He suddenly so tried, exhausted, but it’s good, it’s better at least. He feels like he can breathe. He’s drifting, when Brent rolls over to face him. “If he says a word, if he says a single thing, I’ll be off the bench so fast.”

It takes Marc a second to register what Brent means. “I don’t need you to fight my battles.” The words are sharp, but he smiles to take the bite out of them.

Brent shifts up onto his elbow. “What if I want to?”

“Hmm, because your rep isn’t enough already?" Marc's grin is wider, somehow, impossibly. "’s okay, it’s over, it’s done.”

**Author's Note:**

> (If you're wondering about Brent Johnson's reputation take a look at [This Video](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y5sdOh7Bcvs) )


End file.
